Lost Boys
by blue meridian
Summary: A possible midnight after the boys leave the island. Written because there is Nothing that I Will Not Slash. ::cackles:: JackRalph, of course.


Disclaimer: Lord of the Flies, in all it's horror, belongs to William Golding, and even though I eat of the JtHM and drink of the SeishirouxSubaru fic, I'm not convinced even I could produce something that screwed up. Oh, yes, and brilliant, because we all care that Lord of the Flies is a Great Literary Work. Cough. Anyway. You get the picture.

Warning: Slash. Because nothing is safe from the boy-love-fangirl-ing mind of Me. I actually slashed a Geico commercial the other day. And I Glee (yes, it IS a verb, dammit) when Ryan kisses Collin on Whose Line. Fear me.

A/N: Set mostly-immediately after the ending of the book. Also, heavy use of stream of consciousness, so expect sentences to run on like bats out of hell. Or. Something. Yes.

Pork time!

-Lost Boys-

There were_ things_ in the darkness, things that got under Ralph's veins and craaaawled up, up, up his arms insidiously, wiggling their way closer and closer to his face, and it was vital, somehow, not to let them reach his face. Shadows and noises the_ Beast_ something in his head breathed, and no amount of logic and education could stop the shivering that followed that thought…

…But no. This was ridiculous. Enough was enough. They were off the island, and the beast, whatever it had been, was gone. It _was_, he insisted to himself, subconsciously nodding as he lay in the bleach-white bed. There were no windows in his cabin, so the darkness that surrounded him was the same as it had been on the island, but he could feel the reassuring rock of the ocean beneath him. It would be alright. It would.

But when the cabin door creaked open to let in Jack, fully clothed now but with that stick, the one sharpened at both ends, all the darkness came rushing-tearing-shrieking back.

He didn't even hear himself jerk out of bed before Jack tackled him to the solid wooden floor. Flinging his arms up in front of him, Ralph did nothing but move, move, just keep moving to block the descending stick both ends sharp and raw with his _head_ the pig Piggy dead just like he would be and his muscles screamed more than he could manage to and he was frustrated because he had left the island behind and it wouldn't let him go, he had survived but it hadn't been enough and he did not want to die.

He opened his eyes a little, or maybe they had been open but he had been too busy not dying to notice, but now he noticed Jack's eyes and they were like the island at night, that night with the meat and the hunt and Simon, oh God, Simon, but he didn't have time to feel guilty he _had_ to keep moving, keep Jack's arms and that stick away. Sometime forty seconds in, although Ralph felt like he had been fighting for an eon, a frantic grab and a twist flung the stick away from Ralph's heart and crashing into the floor, and he thought that every alarm on the ship would go off after the boom of the stick snapping next to his ear.

And still, still Jack scraped and stabbed at him, thrusting the fractured, fraying end of the stick against Ralph's chest.

He could feel the stick splintering against his clavicle, all jagged tears unclean dirt and bark getting under his skin, he just knew. Jack suddenly threw it aside, done with the niceties, apparently, and poured fist after fist into Ralph's body, a torrent of pain Ralph hadn't thought could even exist. And he was trying, really he was trying to fight it; he threw all the angles of his body against Jack; knees and elbows and anything just to _get him off_, but he just wasn't getting anywhere his knuckles were sore and his wrists ached his neck hurt from straining to see to propel himself upward get the advantage but it wasn't working and if it was it wasn't working fast enough and he was _tired_, after all, he was tired and it was too much work, tired and not enough incentive, and most of all tired of Jack and his endless war, because it was supposed to be _over_, with the island behind them and clothes over their bare tan flesh again, but he didn't think Jack's war would ever be over because that was what he _was_, and if that was what he was then how could he ever stop being that? He never could, so it would never end, and that thought wearied Ralph.

Digging the heel of his hand into Jack's shaking, struggling arm, fingers grasping knuckle-white, he thought that he didn't want to die, really. But he wanted something to end, and if the war wouldn't, then maybe it would be less exhausting if he did. He swallowed, slowly and painfully.

"Jack" he said, and his voice sounded odd to him, soft and disembodied, like he was trying to wake someone gently.

"Jack," once more he called out, just to hear it again; it sounded so strange.

He tried to communicate this thing to Jack, that it could be over, to stop fighting and pounding and hurting because he was giving up, so it was okay. But he couldn't muster even the strength to say Jack's name again, he was so tired still from the island, the running, the fire and the fear. He felt…disconnected, Jack's ceaseless fists echoed in his ears but never seemed to reach him…and he watched as his arms floated up, lazy as a dream, to touch Jack's shoulder, his collarbone, his jaw. _Stop_, he wanted to say, _Stop already…_

Jack's efforts became offbeat, drums fading, and the fury and carnal rage flickered in his eyes, sputtered, shifted, and those eyes were still intense, but heavy with confusion now more than anger, with apprehension and anguish and _want,_ the older boy seemed to desperately want something. Ralph figured maybe it was his death,the boyhad set an entire island on fire for it after all. Jack just wanted to feel the heart beneath his hands slow to silence.

He looked up, thoughtful, his fingers brushing Jack's cheek just below his eyelashes, and Jack stopped with his fist trembling rebelliously near Ralph's face; the tendons all through his forearm were tight and ready, and yet Ralph couldn't help think that Jack's expression was a begrudgingly but undeniably lost.

So Ralph took another breath and tried to tell Jack that he could have what he wanted and everything would be fine, he was giving up already, so stop looking so _sad_, because he really, really did.

_Jack_ his mouth formed, but there was nothing left to say it with, and in an instant something splintered in Jack like the coarse wood of the stick sharpened at both ends, and with a breathless "hn-!" hitch if surprise, Ralph's nerves finally registered Jack's mouth falling against his own.

After a fluttering blink, Ralph sighed into Jack, his eyes rolled back lids slid shut because he was so tired, and something said that maybe he should question what was happening, and something else said that he _knew_ what was happening and he should stop it, but he was so. damn. tired, and in the end he just relaxed and let the peace (he thought Jack maybe could be peace, instead of war, as long as he was one or the other and nothing in between) wash over him…

And as the ocean rocked and Jack's warm lips slid over his own, he thought that maybe it would be alright to live, after all.

_I hope you find what you were looking for._

A/N: It's been a long time since I read LotF, so if I get anything wrong feel free to point them out. Also,I would like to take this time to point out that QuickEdit is a bitch. But I digress. Reviews are like Pocky with less frosting! Gimme!

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